Lois Richer - North Country Mom

“Are you all right?” she whispered.

“I’m not used to sitting so long.” His nose twitched at the scent she wore. He’d noticed it earlier. Something dried and earthy, like an herb. Sage? “Are you full-blooded Cree?”

“Yes.” She looked a bit surprised at his sudden question but didn’t volunteer any more. Instead, she averted her eyes as if hiding something.

“Where do your parents live?” Why did he feel compelled to learn more about her?

“They died when I was thirteen.” Alicia faced him, her eyes darkening to black diamonds. “My dad was a pilot. They were returning from visiting a friend up north when their plane crashed. I was sent to live in Vancouver with a distant relative.” Her gaze challenged him. Any other questions?

“I didn’t mean to pry,” he apologized.

“It’s not a secret. Anyone in Churchill could have told you the same thing,” she said.

But Jack was pretty sure they couldn’t tell him any other details about Alicia Featherstone. According to Laurel, she kept to herself. He guessed most people respected the resolute barriers she wore like shields.

“Can I ask you a question?” Alicia murmured.

“I guess.” He waited warily, hoping she didn’t have the wrong impression. Alicia was very pretty but he wasn’t interested.

Liar.

“What’s with the boots?” Her gaze fell to his feet.

“You don’t like them?” Jack held out one foot, admiring the feel of the supple leather snuggled against his toes without pinching.

“They’re great. Very, uh, pretty.” She wrinkled her nose. “It’s just that you don’t strike me as the pretty type.”

“Thanks.” Jack smothered his chuckle when she dipped her head. “It’s not about fashion. I do—did,” he corrected gloomily, “a lot of work on my feet. I decided early on that I wasn’t going to be a literal flatfoot so I bought good shoes.”

“You do realize they’ll be ruined in Churchill?” she warned. “You must have noticed on previous visits that we only have pavement in some places. Other streets are gravel. The worst roads around town are dirt. If you wear those on the beach, the stones will poke through the soles and you’ll suffer a lot worse than flat feet.” She thrust out her own foot. “Trust me. You will end up in ordinary hiking boots, just like the rest of us.”

“Never.” He liked her dare-you attitude. “Tell me about your store.”

“Tansi?” She frowned, leaned her head to one side. “I told you. I gather First Nations work from all across Canada, some of it very unusual. I try to sell it with bits of history attached, to give tourists perspective on how the piece came to be, what it means to our culture.”

Jack noted how a sparkle lit up her eyes as she spoke. It was clear Alicia loved her work. He paid close attention as she continued.

“There’s a lot of prejudice toward Native Canadians.” Her chin thrust out as if to defend her people. “I’m trying to create a bridge by showing and teaching the values in our culture. I want to help people appreciate the meaning of their purchase.”

“What kinds of things do you sell?” He wanted to keep her talking. She intrigued him. Surprising when nothing had really interested him for ages.

“My stock changes constantly. There are no two things alike. At the moment I have an Inuit carving of a walrus, very tiny but perfectly detailed. A woman makes beaded slippers with real rabbit fur trim for my shop. She lives entirely off the land. This trip I restocked silver and beaded earrings made by a village elder who is wheelchair-bound but the most creative lady you’ll ever meet.” Alicia shrugged. “I also have some paintings of the northern lights, knitting that’s been dyed from local plants, photos of the area. All kinds of things.”

“And I’m sure the polar bears are represented, too,” he teased.

“Of course. Bears are an important part of Cree culture,” she said.

“Do you make any of these crafts?”

“I’m not really talented in that way.” The light in her eyes faded to a dull mud tone. “I never had much time to learn the old ways because I was taken from my community when my parents died.”

“Were you adopted?” he asked, curiosity growing.

“No. I was thirteen. Adoptive parents want babies or very young kids.” She frowned at him. “Why did you ask that?”

“Just wondering.” But Jack knew he couldn’t shut down like that. He’d poked into her life; turnabout was fair play. Besides, he needed help to figure out his next move. “Giselle is adopted. My wife wanted to keep it a secret as long as she could. I didn’t agree but Simone was adamant. Then she died. I thought I’d tell Giselle when she turned sixteen.”

“But she found out first?” Alicia guessed.

“Yes.” His lips tightened into a line. “Two months ago she found her mother’s old diary and figured out we weren’t her birth parents.”

“It happens.” Alicia didn’t say any more but somehow Jack felt her empathy.

“She’s really angry that we didn’t tell her.” He sighed. “That’s natural, I guess. But she keeps demanding more information about her birth family.”

“And you don’t want to tell her?” Disapproval laced her voice.

“I can’t tell her more because I don’t know any more.” Jack’s jaw clenched. Why had he started this?

Alicia leaned against the window of the train, her gaze on him.

“I have so little information.” He raked a hand through his hair as helplessness gripped him. “There’s nothing to go on. Simone insisted on a closed adoption. That means that Giselle can’t find out anything more than what we already know until she’s eighteen. Then she can request the adoption agency in British Columbia to open her file.”

“Normal procedure.”

Jack nodded. Did Alicia know about adoptions? If she did, maybe she could talk to Giselle, help her understand it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t get the answers she wanted.

“I’m assuming her birth father’s name wasn’t listed or is a dead end?” Alicia asked.

He nodded. “Dead end.”

“But surely you have the name of the biological mother on Giselle’s birth certificate?” Her head tilted to one side as she studied him. “You were a police officer. You must have a lot of contacts. Couldn’t someone track the name?”

He didn’t want to answer but Alicia kept waiting.

“I did track her.” Jack sighed. “Two years after the adoption, Giselle’s birth mother disappeared. There’s no trace of her.” Oddly, it felt good to discuss this with her.

“What about Laurel? Surely as a former social worker, your sister could—”

“Social workers are provincial employees,” he explained. “Laurel never worked in that province.”

“I see.” Alicia fell silent, apparently lost in thought.

“Can I ask you something?” Jack waited until she nodded. “How do you know about adoptions? You said you were never adopted so—” He let it hang, his curiosity about her growing.

“I wasn’t.” Her gaze moved to one side, avoiding his. “I, um, for a long time I’ve been looking for someone who was adopted. But the clues I had led to dead ends. I don’t have connections like you do so I don’t know where to look next.”

“My connections weren’t much help,” Jack told her. He dug in his pocket and pulled out the slip of paper he’d been carrying around since his last day of work. “But this might be. Someone gave me this website address. They said it’s been helpful to others. It wasn’t for me, but you’re welcome to copy the address and check it out.”

“I, um, don’t have a pen or paper,” she said after a moment’s hesitation.

“I do.” Jack pulled out the small pad and pen he always kept in his breast pocket and held them out. “Old habit from my detective days.” Surprisingly she didn’t take, either. “You already know about this site?”